


Tackle

by yeaka



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Ficlet, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:28:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23439202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: S*x happens.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 243





	Tackle

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fair warning I’ve only seen the show.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Witcher or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

When Geralt’s eyes go black, Jaskier should tense—should push Geralt away and try to squirm to freedom, because he’s seen that look a dozen times and knows what it means. When Geralt’s pupils dilated right through the irises and he smiles like a wolf, it’s usually because he’s about to rip off a monster’s head. Jaskier knows just how capable of that he is. He could tear Jaskier in half with hardly any effort on a good day, much less a great day, and that shouldn’t be thrilling but _is_. Jaskier sees Geralt descending over him like a starving dog, and all Jaskier does is whimper and wrap his arms tighter around Geralt’s massive shoulders. 

Geralt snorts and keeps coming down, smashing into Jaskier’s face so hard that he’s worried it might knock his teeth askew. He kisses Geralt back anyway. He opens wide for Geralt’s probing tongue and tries not to choke when it slithers down his throat. He should’ve known Geralt would be _rough_. He thinks Geralt’s _capable_ of _making love_ despite all odds, but it’s something they’re going to have to work up to. Jaskier’s going to have to endear himself to his witcher much better than he’s been doing. He needs Geralt to smile at him with pure fondness instead of barely-restrained exasperation. He wants Geralt to hum along to his songs and welcome him when they cross paths. As it is, he gets a grunt of acknowledgement, a few coins to the innkeeper, and now he’s being flattened into the battered mattress in one of the empty upstairs rooms. Maybe that’s an improvement. It’s something. 

Geralt pulls away to start mouthing at Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier’s head rolls to the side, and he realizes with a start that Geralt’s iris are still there, just faint—it’s not the bloodlust of a hunt but just regular old _lust_. He tries to calculate in his head how long it’s been since he saw Geralt last and if it’s been long enough to justify this longing. Not that he doesn’t always have some sense of longing. There’s a reason all his best songs revolve around Geralt. He just didn’t think Geralt was susceptible to the same weakness. 

Obviously, he was wrong, if the enormous fingers working open his hole are anything to go by. They scissor him apart, dripping with whatever oil Geralt poured on him, and Jaskier arches off the bed, moaning out. He’d moaned down in the bar, he thinks. He’d had a drink or two, saw Geralt, handsome, wildly _hot_ Geralt, he’d started up a bawdy song, and then when some other man had sidled up and come on to him, he’d—

Geralt’s blunt teeth dig into the skin of his throat, and Jaskier cries out in pain. Geralt mutters, “Sorry,” but isn’t much gentler on the next bruising kiss. Jaskier’s kissed dozens of women. So has Geralt, most likely. But the second Jaskier made eyes at another _man_ , the gloves came off. 

Geralt’s bare hand snakes down Jaskier’s side, digging into his naked hip, pinning him down and trying to hold him in place. The other hand steadily works him wider, even though Jaskier already feels like he’s gaping. He doesn’t protest. He’s seen Geralt’s dick before, and he knows just how huge it is. He couldn’t take it without proper preparation. Somehow, he hadn’t pictured Geralt being quite so _tender_ about it. 

One of Geralt’s fingers crooks against his inner walls and jams upward—he scrunches up his face and hisses. So much for tenderness. He tries to twist out of Geralt’s grip when Geralt shoves knuckle-deep, but Geralt bears over him and leaves no room to run. Jaskier’s not really sure he’d want to anyway. His thighs are already shaking, clinging to Geralt’s sides. He’s already starting to sweat, even though the room’s relatively chilly and he doesn’t have a stitch of clothing left. The anticipation’s getting to him. _Geralt’s_ getting to him. Geralt’s fingers dance back up to tangle in Jaskier’s hair, and Geralt jerks him back by it swift enough to sting. There might be tears at the corner of Jaskier’s eyes. That might be because this is really happening. 

Another awkward twist of Geralt’s too-big fingers, and Jaskier rasps, “Geralt, ahh—you know, I think—”

“Don’t talk,” Geralt mutters, voice as low and husky as usual; no less guttural for the bedroom setting. Not that Jaskier expected any different. Of course Geralt would still be such a poor sport about a good conversation. 

“It’s just that if you’re going to take a while, then we may as well—”

Geralt’s fingers suddenly withdraw. Jaskier actually chokes at the rush of it, the sudden sensation of being left too wide and empty. “Done.”

Jaskier swallows. “Yes, well, it still might be a good idea—” Geralt’s mouth is on his again, cutting off his words and air. Jaskier makes an indignant noise that’s quickly lost amid a groan, because Geralt’s surprisingly talented with his tongue. And he’s lining up. Jaskier can feel it. His legs are coaxed wider, Geralt’s warm hands running up and down his thighs, slowly pushing them open, and then something wet and round is nudging at his entrance, and as soon as it goes in, Jaskier _screams_ into Geralt’s mouth. 

Of course Geralt would be giant. Of course he goes too fast. It’s one big, harsh, deliciously painful drive in, sliding halfway on that first go, and Jaskier’s scream is quickly followed up with another one. He claws at Geralt’s shoulder blades for dear life, sure he’s leaving marks amidst the many other scars. He can’t help himself. His entire body curls around Geralt, filled to its limit, even though Geralt’s still rocking his hips and trying to go _deeper_. Jaskier doesn’t think it possible. Except Geralt keeps going, feeding him more cock, and bit by glorious bit, Jaskier takes it. Past the initial shock, the pain fades—he’s slick and wet and _tries_ to relax, but the sheer effort makes his whole body tremble. He can’t believe Geralt’s actually _inside him_.

Jaskier’s own cock is rock hard against his stomach, poking into Geralt’s, but he doesn’t dare touch it. He’s come to the fantasy of this so many times, and he knows he won’t last long through the real thing. It’s all he can do to clench down around Geralt’s incredible girth. The soreness that brings him is strangely grounding. Maybe he likes it. Maybe there’s a certain satisfaction to being overpowered so easily. Geralt’s strength is intoxicating. When Jaskier tries to turn his head away, needing air, Geralt’s hand clamps around his cheek and holds him in place—he drowns in the kiss while Geralt grinds into him, buried to the hilt. It’s the most _full_ Jaskier’s ever felt. It occurs to him—too late—that every other man he sleeps with now is going to feel so horribly _small_ in comparison.

There’s nothing small about Geralt. He doesn’t seem to mind that Jaskier’s cock doesn’t even compare, or that Jaskier’s a little shorter and a little rounder and he doesn’t have anywhere near the hard muscles Geralt does—Geralt starts thrusting with palpable fervor. He pulls out enough to make Jaskier whine, then slams in so far that Jaskier shrieks, and the next one comes just as hard, just as fast, then worse—rough and fierce and dizzyingly _good_. It knocks all thought and sense out of Jaskier’s head and throws him into a strange, empty space, where he can do nothing but wait for Geralt’s cock. He clings desperately to Geralt’s back and occasionally _tries_ to suck Geralt’s tongue but mostly just _survives_ while Geralt fucks him on both ends. Geralt’s chiseled chest practically crushes the wind out of him, Geralt’s abs sliding up and down his leaking cock. The sweat beads up in record time, because Geralt’s overheating him like crazy, _overworking_ him like crazy, and Jaskier doesn’t even have his mouth free to beg for mercy. He probably wouldn’t anyway. He’d probably deliriously beg for _more_ , because if there’s one thing he can never get enough of, it’s Geralt. 

Geralt hits the right spot. Jaskier writhes in sudden ecstasy, head shorting out—his eyes roll back in his head, only to close when Geralt bites his bottom lip—he’s not free from kissing yet. It becomes a chore to breathe through his nose. Sometimes Geralt pounds just the right place inside him, and sometimes Geralt misses it completely, but either way the pressure on Jaskier’s cock is maddening. He can feel strings of Geralt’s white hair beginning to catch along his sweaty face. His fist knots in another set of strands. He could probably tug Geralt back enough to scream but instead just tries to pull Geralt closer. He feels like he’s going to knock himself unconscious, and that sounds _amazing_.

He hits the edge without even realizing, topples over, and comes before he can stop it. He screams into Geralt’s mouth and can feel his seed shooting out between them, sticking to bother their chests, both their stomachs, drizzling down into the sheets around him. The slapping sound of skin-on-skin and the angry banging of Geralt’s thrusts pushing the headboard against the wall eclipse all Jaskier’s whimpers. His fingers go slack in Geralt’s hair. Newly spent and boneless, Jaskier slumps down into the mattress. 

Geralt keeps going, because he’s a beast that could never be satisfied with one lone bard. Jaskier accepts and basks in that, strangely giddy in his afterglow. He feels fucked stupid. As the pleasure ebbs away, the soreness returns, even though he hasn’t had a chance to tighten up again—Geralt’s weight, heat, and mercilessness just catch up with him. 

It takes way too long for Jaskier to get the wherewithal to worm one hand between them and push at Geralt’s chest. Of course he doesn’t have the strength to actually _move_ Geralt, but the sign works. Geralt suddenly stutters to a halt and lifts up on all fours. He looks down at Jaskier with his gorgeous, flushed, dilated face and practically _growls_. A shiver runs through Jaskier’s body. Geralt seems to devour the sight of him, satiated in his post-orgasm haze. Jaskier opens his dry mouth and breathes, “Geralt—”

Geralt grits his teeth and pulls out, coming instantly. It shoots all the way up Jaskier’s chest and splatters his chin. He blinks at Geralt in surprise, watching the tremors run through Geralt’s hulking form. 

He tries again, “Geralt, we—” Geralt dives down and pecks him on the lips. It’s not enough to stifle his words this time, but it takes him by surprise enough to do the same job. 

Then Geralt’s flopping down next to him, weighing down the mattress considerably. 

Jaskier’s head rolls to the side. “We should be together. As in, officially. You and me.”

“Shut up, Jaskier.”

“What? We may as well. We clearly have feelings for each other, and at the very least, you’re very obviously attractive to me, and I happen to think it also makes for a rather—“ 

“One more word and this will never happen again.”

Jaskier shuts his mouth, but he makes up for it by pouting harder than he ever has. Geralt takes one look at it and snorts. 

Geralt rolls onto his side, facing safely away, but Jaskier sidles up to his sculpted ass and spoons him, sticky, gross, and happy.


End file.
